


Coming Home to Coulson

by Bluesy_Deth



Category: The Avengers (2012), The Avengers - Ambiguous Fandom
Genre: 5 Times, Danger, Established Relationship, Fluff, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-16
Updated: 2013-06-16
Packaged: 2017-12-15 05:18:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 3,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/845758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bluesy_Deth/pseuds/Bluesy_Deth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After all, The Avengers team are all sexy and awesome but it's really Phil Coulson you want to come home to every night, isn't it?  </p><p>Five times coming home to Phil is good and one time it's not.  The tales are unrelated so find your fave and dream away!</p><p>Best part: you pick who's coming home to the Agent; any character from any fandom or yourself (mix and match even!).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Long day, seriously. Not bad, not even unpleasant but when it's Date Night the hours of the day just drag! That spring in your step wasn't there earlier and neither was the goofy grin. He'll have a dry chuckle for your enthusiasm and that's part of the cause of your smile; the day-to-night transformation from Agent to your Phil is the Best Thing Ever.

You ease the door open- not like you can catch him but it's part of the fun- and the noise hits you in the head like a brick. There's more than one little person forgetting to use their "inside" voice and your smile falters. The kids should be settled in the living room with a movie by now and there's definitely more voices than the usual two children you've counted at the table each morning and night for the last three years. Shaking off disappointment, you straighten up and try to put a smile back on; it's not the smile you save just for him, the smile that's a little less used and a little more special since his sister's death meant his niece and nephew moved in- though you're completely fine with them and, surprisingly, even happy with the additions. This is the "I'm home to my happy little family" smile with the addition of "how did we get bigger this time, Phil" in your eyes. Approaching the kitchen, you see, with some relief, that the additions are their best friends from across the street which means they'll go home eventually. Somehow, after that initial shock of walking in one day to Phil sitting on the couch with the kids and a strained "sorry I couldn't reach you earlier" apology on his lips, you've kind of wondered who or what else will just appear and take up residence. Fortunately, he holds firm against four legged or no legged creatures but you're still a wee bit gunshy at being caught off guard again.

The kitchen looks like an army went through training maneuvers and left abruptly. There are cupcakes in various stages of decoration EVERYWHERE and a slight haze of flour in the air(- please tell me that's fire and not smoke)! You're pretty convinced the neighbor kids brought some of their own kitchen equipment since you can't imagine you own that many bowls, spatulas and cookie sheets. They're stacked precariously in and around the sink and all in need of scrubbing. The five kids are are chattering like monkeys and so clearly hyped up on sugar that you begin to dread the inevitable, impending crashes and how cranky they'll all be. They spot you and the pandemonium ratchets up to jet engine levels as they rush to greet you- the neighbor kids just as comfortable demanding welcome home hugs which feels pretty good (when did that happen, you wonder, I used to be such a bad ass, didn't I?). You ignore the sugary, sticky hands leaving smears all over your clothes since that's what the washing machine is for and it really is nice to be welcomed home like this. After a moment, they swarm back to the table to work on more decorations and you've been given the explanation that it was their turn to bring the birthday cupcakes for their respective grades this month. Of course, that means there's regular cupcakes, gluten free and vegan varieties. 

Suddenly, you're grateful you didn't get home first to that announcement since that would have been a car safari of rounding up cupcakes from every grocery store within 5 miles. Yes, this is way messier and annoying but you look up and meet his eyes for the first time and that genuine "welcome home/I love you" smile is kick-starting a blooming heat in your stomach that's moving quickly lower into your body. He took off his jacket but not his tie and he's wearing his "kiss the cook" apron (at least that's what you know it says but danged if you can read it through the batter and icing smears across it right now- thank heavens you insisted on the top end model of washing machine when the kids arrived, you'll need it tonight). His hair isn't even ruffled but his forearms are pale with flour dusted through the hair and it's not fair he looks so good with sleeves rolled up and oven mitts on! You start to laugh at the absurdity it all even as he's apologizing with a grin, "sorry about Date Night, babe, but I couldn't leave the babysitter with this!"


	2. Chapter 2

It's costume party night and you have no idea what you're going to wear; literally. You wheedled and connived and Phil finally huffed and gave in- with the caveat that HE was choosing the costumes. He hates these events and you know it but sometimes you need to win. At this particular moment, you can't remember why it was so important but you needed his agreement to RSVP and now it's time to pay the piper, so to speak. Staring at the front door, you straighten up, square your shoulders and set a casual smile in place. He's had two weeks and hasn't said a single word plus you didn't find anything hidden away and you even checked the attic twice. Phil's not above revenge so you could be in a gender bender costume or even something tasteless which he'll sigh about and pass off as your idea at the party. The smile is a little more excited than casual at that thought as you walk in; he's so deliciously improper at times and almost no one knows that but you- your secret Phil, the lover, the tease, the gentle prankster. You check your watch and wonder if there's time for a little pleasure before the party when the firm and knowing "no" from the living room causes you to look up and see the Dread Pirate Westley/Phil standing there, masked face and sword in hand. Normally, you'd tease and lightly whine about spending a few minutes in a compromising position but damn he looks fine AND it's hard to back talk him when you can't catch your breath! You're sure your mouth is hanging open and you know speech is not an option as he bows with a flourish, strides forward (hot damn, those boots had better not be rentals because they are so finding a place in his closet if you have your way) and smacks you flat on the ass with the side of the sword. Your yelp is genuine as is his wicked, wicked smile. "Your costume's in the bedroom, Buttercup," he growls. "Let me know if you need help with the wig or the dress." He chuckles and strikes a pirate pose with one hand on his hip and the sword raised high. You blink and think "okaaaaaay" and you realize this is going to be one awesome night- but the whole damn outfit had best not be a rental because the damage deposit is officially a lost cause!


	3. Chapter 3

Even as your mind registers the soft candle light in the living room, you're still automatically reaching for the light switch in the hall; it doesn't work. You know you're tired as it takes a moment to sink in that something is going on here- where's Phil and is this a blackout? You reach back in your mind and assess the approach home but everything seemed fine and the porch light was on. Moving slowly, you walk pause in the living room entry with your back to the darkened kitchen. The sofa is draped with sheets (plural?) and the coffee table has been moved in close to it and is littered with candles, bottles of water & rehydration drinks, some assorted jars from the kitchen (honey, chocolate and is that spray whipped cream?), some towels and HOLY CRAP that's a video camera on a tripod aimed at the sofa. 

You sense him moving in from the kitchen but there's no way you're taking your eyes off this set up and have it disappear like a genie's bad prank. He wraps a bare arm around your waist and splays his hand across your belly; it begins a long, slow, tortuous trek downwards to more interesting terrain as he kisses the nape of your neck. "Welcome home, sweetheart."

"Wow." Not much of a reply but very, very heartfelt. You reach back with one hand to his hip to pull him closer and realize he's not just shirtless but pantless, too. You groan and drop your head back onto his shoulder, giving him access to the pulse point pounding in your throat. He nibbles. Someone moans and it's likely you. "Uh, won't we need more light for the video?"

"Field testing new low-light equipment for work. Too bad the memory chip is going to be 'lost.' "

Another mystery moan; probably you again. "Um, that's a lot of sheets."

He growls low in his throat as he moves your head to the side to start on that sensitive spot behind your ear- still sounding calm and cool while the tip of his tongue slowly drags along your warm skin. "Gonna be here awhile, sweetheart."

The breathless "oh" is definitely all you as the he presses against you from behind and your knees turn traitor and buckle- you fall back against him but he catches you (he'll always catch you, always). "The drinks?"

He breaks from the seduction with a snarky chuckle. "You're not crapping out on me from dehydration this time!"

It breaks the mood a moment as you object that it was only the once and start to enumerate the various issues that contributed to it but his wandering hand has finally reached its destination andreallywhoneedstothinkanymorethatjustfeelssodamnfine...


	4. Chapter 4

Medical had released him before they'd wanted to but it was for his own sake. Everyone wanted to check in, ask just one question, confirm just one thing about a mission plan or complain about how things weren't running to everyone's liking without him. Phil knows he's not indispensable, though it does feel good that others think so, but he needs rest and it's not going to happen there. He came home to your bed with a small pharmacy on the beside table and a burner cell that only you and Medical know about. The land line and his work cell are turned off and removed from the room- he's such a workaholic but he's still having blurry vision and headaches so he's not up to searching the house for them. It's just sore joints at this point, thankfully nothing that shortens his career. Who would he be without the suit and title of Agent, anyway? Not something you're interested in finding out this early in your lives. 

It was his third day home and he's improving exponentially. The living room had shown signs of use as you passed but the he's clearly not been up to hunting for the phones (which are in the trunk of your car with his laptop, tablet and e-reader; it's not your first time at this particular rodeo, thank-you-very-much). You approach the bedroom slowly but he doesn't stir which means he's had to take something for the pain. That's not good but it seems the sheets have been changed, that's a different tee shirt and his hair is shower-dampened so there's the explanation. He's probably overdone it but also would be sleeping better with everything fresh; this morning, you'd advised it was all going to happen when you got home and he's saved you that in typical Phil fashion. You smile at how crappy a patient he can be but he's definitely better today. 

Leaning in to nuzzle and kiss his temple softly, you can see the exhaustion in the paleness of his skin and the blue veins so visible on his eyelids. The dark lashes flutter a little but he doesn't quite come to consciousness which means he'd taken something for pain and a muscle relaxer. He'll be out the rest of the night but now that you're here he's safe. You hate leaving him alone all day but you both know you'll be on each other's nerves within hours if you stay when he's able to care for himself. You run your fingers through the sleep tousled, damp hair and kiss his cheek. You'll have one more day of him home and then he'll throw himself back into his grueling schedule. It's not much of a life sometimes. You'll take advantage of tonight- quick shower, quick supper (checking that he's eaten all that you left him- not just bits of it), and cuddle against him in bed for the night. Stolen moments are more satisfying when he's awake for them but you'll take what you can get. He'd warned you the life he leads had been the death knell for all prior relationships and you've kept your promise to yourself that you wouldn't begrudge the man his work. It's not that you are second in his life- no one else got a moment of his time off the clock- but the job was more than 80 hours a week and you'd be lying to say you weren't a little tired of that. Tonight, you'll be grateful for what you get and set the alarm clock for just a little earlier so there's time for a donut run. He'll appreciate the gesture and the gentle affection in those beautiful eyes which glow from within makes so many of your cares melt away to nothing.


	5. Chapter 5

Phil's lying sprawled on the couch as you quietly come in; no straight-laced Agent in sight. Just a sleepy, handsome man: loose-limbed in relaxation, barefoot, clad in his favorite old jeans that are washed almost threadbare in places. His thermal tee is also an old fave and, when he's awake, the green color brings out the sparkle in his blue gray eyes; it's frayed cuffs and collar match the disreputable air of the jeans which is so amazing on the carefully constructed and maintained professional man. He has layers and facets and you doubt you've dented the surface but, oh, you are working on that daily and have all the time in the world (please Universe, give us Time! is the prayer silently sent up more than once a day, though you'd never admit it). He's woken with your entrance and his eyes speak more than words ever could- though he's generous with the loving and affectionate talk which you crave. He is silent out of care for the your infant daughter lying asleep on his chest. She's in a little pink creeper with feet that have bunny faces embroidered on them. (The hell he'd catch at work for having picked that outfit as his favorite of the shower gifts!) His large hand is splayed across her, gently holding her safe and warm against him and the golden band on his ring finger shines in the low light. Her dark hair is as sleep mussed as his and isn't quite long enough to clip on the bows he bought online- two dozen in assorted colors and patterns. Heavens, Phil Coulson is so wrapped around that tiny little finger on the hands you two haven't even gotten used to holding yet; your little girl only just arrived and he's already glaring at every male in the vicinity like they're breaking her precious heart just by breathing. 

Your heart is pounding in your throat at the sight of the bad ass agent, relaxed and content in your home with your daughter. A life together you'd not expected when you'd met, not realizing how well his mask hid the human behind the title and efficient demeanor. Now, you can't understand how no one else sees past it so clearly; a few, precious few, know but you can't remember how effective he is at deflecting attention and just getting things done in the shadows. They are your light- your husband and daughter- your world and all that's necessary for living and breathing and being. 

He scrunches over leaving just barely enough room for you. It's calculated to leave you pressed against his side, immobile between him and the arm of the couch. You smile knowingly and he smiles back- no bland mask, no little crinkle at the corner of his eyes and mouth- a true, warm and loving smile cascading across his face. She snuffles in her sleep and shifts, he spreads his hand to secure her again and his eyes are trained on her for a few moments. When you've snuggled beside him and she's still again, he leans his head against yours and whispers, "love you, babe."


	6. Chapter 6

It's been awhile since you've been here and, from experience, you hold your breath against the stale burst of air when you open the door, step in quickly and lock it behind you. A long exhale, a reach for the light which doesn't work and the sudden realization the air is cool and fresh. A quiet, calm voice from the corner- the only corner of the room without a door or window to provide some illumination-, "welcome home." Oh, crap.

"Hands up, please. Move to the center of the room." The figure sits in a straight back chair from the kitchen and there's a glint off the gun in his hand which is pointed at you. The voice is authoritative without being loud or harsh. And you recognize it. This is a really, really bad day.

"Um, so-," you start but are cut off. 

"You don't talk now; that time passed when you ran. You no longer have options. You have one choice: do the job asked of you or disappear into some pit of a prison in a country that really doesn't like Americans."

"But either way, I'm dead," you cry out. The figure hasn't moved and still doesn't.

"Not my problem."

"I don't deserve this! I don't-"

The voice loses the quiet tenor and takes on a commanding tone, "You have brought yourself to this point with phenomenally bad choices over a period of years. Do NOT imagine I care." The figure stands, gun still trained on you. He moves to the door along the windowless wall. When he's close the icy eyes are impossible to look into and it's too frightening to look away. "Open the front door and step outside."

Panic engulfs you and you do the stupid thing- you run. Or try to. You turn and make it about three steps towards the closet and your gun even as your mind suddenly points out that all of the guns and weapons you'd secreted in the not-so-safe-afterall house are lying on the floor by his feet. He's right behind you, anyway, kicks your feet out from under you and is using a zip tie on your wrists before you've fully hit the floor.

"Should have done the job."


End file.
